At this time last year, I was a
mess that couldn’t be cleaned up
with the simple flick of the wrist
or with the sweep of a broom.

I have been moving and lifting furniture,
trying to remodel the abandoned corners
of my soul that haven’t been touched since he left.
It has proven to be therapeutic to me,
and has healed my heart in ways that
putting things in the metaphorical boxes
to ship off to far away places couldn’t do before.

I’ve been painting the walls in my newly hollowed ribcage
so the sound of my heartbeat can echo against
my bones once more, and not be held back by the stitches or
makeshift ties that barely held my brittle body together.